


Don't(?) Panic!

by Cleo_Calliope



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Genre: Arthur is accomodating, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Ford is an idiot, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo_Calliope/pseuds/Cleo_Calliope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all have our routines  - Or, of all the people in the world, why Arthur?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't(?) Panic!

**Author's Note:**

> First off, this work is NOT based of the 2005 movie!
> 
> This is my attempt to answer the question never addressed in the books, radio series, or the BBC miniseries. Of all the humans in all the world... Why exactly _did_ Ford take Arthur with him?
> 
> Also, sorry for the odd looking title for the story. But the archive just won't let me use HTML in the title bar. Hence, the rather incongruous question mark. You will find the story's proper name below.

* * *

**~~Don’t~~ Panic**!

  


Ford’s first memory of most of the people he'd met on earth were all basically the same, that is if he remembered his first meeting with them at all. The recollection was usually a fuzzy image of someone looking at him with the usual expressions of surprise, amusement, and occasionally alarm or contempt as he expounded on the wonders of the wider galaxy beyond their pathetic little world in drunken intensity.

So, it was unsurprising that that was really all he remembered of first meeting one Arthur Dent. Just another face watching him uncertainly and probably wondering whether Ford was delusional or just having him on. Nothing remarkable about the memory or the human. In fact, Arthur was even less remarkable than most of his race. He was so unremarkable as to be almost exceptional in his complete blandness. Except he was to ordinary even for that.

Therefore it was equally unsurprising that Ford didn't think twice about him. Arthur was quiet, nondescript and seemed to immediately fade into the background of any pub he entered. He was, however, easy to persuade. In the end, he became Ford’s last ditch effort to find someone to go drinking with when he didn't want to be alone and everyone else was either busy, sick of him or insisting he owed them money he insisted he'd never borrowed. When there was absolutely no one else, Ford found he could bully Arthur into coming to the pub with him. What's more he could usually get him to pay for a few drinks as well. Nonetheless, Arthur remained firmly at the bottom of Ford's list of people, the last one called when all else failed. 

He hadn’t realized until this morning – as he stared in shock at the readings on the small computer in his hand and understood what was about to happen to this mostly harmless little planet – that his list of people go drinking with had changed. Bland but convenient Arthur had risen up to the top. In fact, and Ford almost chocked on the admission, Arthur pretty much _was_ the list these days. 

Ford knew what he had to do, knew that this was his way off this miserable little planet. He’d been stuck here far, _far_ too long and now he could finally get back to the wider universe that was his home. He shouldn’t care that his salvation came in the form of a Vogon constructor fleet, that this insignificant world was about to be destroyed. It was dull, useless and the supposedly intelligent species who inhabited it were too stupid to realize that their little world wasn’t important in the least. 

So, why was he thinking of his list of people – alright _one_ person – who could he could reliably get to buy him alcohol when the wretchedness of being suck on this rock of a planet got too much for him?

It was no longer possible for Ford to be sure just how many mornings he'd woken up in Arthur Dent's drab little guestroom after a night out. Or how many days were started on Arthur's couch when the human had been unable to lug an unconscious Ford up the stairs the previous night. Usually Arthur would already be off to the uninspiring job Ford knew bored him. However, he unfailingly would have left aspirin within easy reach and breakfast in the kitchen on a hot plate. 

Ford would take the aspirin – it was never terribly helpful since it didn't affect him as it would a human, but it was better than nothing – and force himself to choke down some of the food which helped a bit more. Besides it wasn't bad food. Arthur wasn't terribly good at many things but he wasn’t a half bad cook. It wasn't exactly gourmet but it wasn't bad. It was just that... Well, it was human food. Earth food. Just another reminder he was stuck on a second rate little planet in the middle of nowhere and _couldn't get off_. 

Finally, when he would feel able to face the world outside Arthur's drab little house – or as little unable to face it as he ever did – he'd wander off. Usually feeling too fed up with himself, the planet and life in general bother cleaning up the dishes he'd used or make the bed. He'd always know when he didn't because Arthur would inevitably mention it in an aggrieved tone of voice the next time Ford showed up to drag him out for the night. Ford always ignored the comment and Arthur nearly always came with him anyway. 

The simple fact was that it had become a routine. Even Arthur's complaining had become routine. Ford didn't bother wondering where he was any more when he woke up on the couch or in that poky little guestroom that always seemed to smell like camphor even though there was absolutely no reason that it should. 

Routine. Standard. Normal. 

Then it had all changed. 

  


  


Ford really remembered very little of the night before, which seemed unfair since it turned out to be significant. All he could recall was a rather vague memory of wanting to see just how drunk he could get Arthur because for some odd reason he thought it would be funny. 

All he knew for certain, however, was that he woke up the following day to a terrible headache and a ceiling he didn’t recognize. Ford had laid staring up at it through half closed eyes wondering where the hell he was _this_ time. After a while, he had chanced raising his head a little and quickly dropped it again as nausea swept through him. He'd closed his eyes and tried to think about the brief glimpse he'd had of the room around him. On second thought, he came to the conclusion that while he never particularly looked at the ceiling before, the room wasn’t entirely unknown to him. He’d more than once borrowed shirts, trousers or just a dressing gown from this room to wear while he laundered his own clothes on a few of those mornings started in Arthur’s guestroom. 

Except he wasn’t starting this morning in Arthur’s guestroom. He seemed to be starting it in Arthur's _bedroom_. The question was, why? And where was Arthur? And speaking of clothes, where were his? Because he definitely seemed to be lacking them. And if he was here, then was Arthur in the guestroom? 

A soft snore from his right suggested that he was not. 

Ford groaned inwardly. Well, this was going to be awkward. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Arthur in a never-really-thought-about-it kind of way. Mostly because he could be bullied into paying for things but also because he listened to Ford's stories without complaint. Also, he didn’t usually pestered Ford to pay him back when Ford Had Not Borrowed Money from him again. However, that didn’t change the fact that he was nondescript, boring and – most importantly – _human_. 

Nonetheless, there was no denying the evidence that Ford was in Arthur's bed and if that was the case than the person lying next to him was likely to be Arthur. If it wasn't than that opened up a whole new realm of problems that Ford didn't feel capable of contemplating just now. 

It was another while though before Ford could muster the enough energy and will power to turn onto his side and open his eyes again. 

Arthur lay sleeping beside him, and if his bare shoulders, arms and part of his chest that weren’t covered by the duvet were anything to go by, he was also missing his clothes. 

Ford inwardly groaned again. This was awkward. This was very awkward. 

It wasn't that he'd never woken up in strange beds before. If you drank as heavily as he did as often as he did it was bound to happen from time to time. Even if you were on Earth, not a planet known for its attractive denizens, sexual stamina, or even much imagination. It was that this bed wasn't totally strange that was making this particular occasion so... uncomfortable. Because instead of a stranger in it with him, it was someone he actually knew. And not just anybody he actually knew. It was the _Arthur Dent_ he actually knew. 

Just how drunk had he managed to get Arthur last night? And for that matter just how drunk had he himself been? Humans might be less than overly attractive, but Arthur was just so... bland. Even by the standards of his own species. Ford tried to think about it, but it remained a stubborn blank and he wasn't sure if he was grateful about that or not. After all, did he really want to remember what he suspected they'd done last night? 

He poked Arthur's arm. "Arthur, wake up." Arthur didn't move. Ford poked him again. "Come on, you need to make tea so we start forgetting this ever happened." 

Arthur grunted and then turned... toward Ford. Ford froze as a still sleeping Arthur slid an arm around is waist and nuzzled in close – confirming that he was entirely without apparel – before falling still again. 

Okay, this was worse. 

Unfortunately, attempts to disengage Arthur from himself only resulted in finding himself even more firmly held. 

"I am not a bloody teddy bear," Ford muttered sullenly. Arthur slept on, oblivious. 

It wasn't that it had been comfortable, Ford always assured himself later. It was just that Arthur had been terribly persistent and Ford had still been very, very hung over. He'd intended to put a stop to all of that nonsense, of course. Just as soon as he woke up again, he'd decided as his arms settled around Arthur's sleeping form and he slipped back off into comfortable unconsciousness himself. 

When he had woken again, it was to and empty bed and the smell of breakfast cooking downstairs. A dressing gown clad Arthur had been in the kitchen holding a cup of tea and looking nervous. 

Nonetheless, that breakfast pasted like so many others before it and somehow a new routine took hold without comment or even conscious choice, at least on Ford’s part. Besides, Arthur's bed was more comfortable than the guestroom anyway. Whether this had anything to do with Arthur being in it Ford was unwilling to comment on, even to himself. 

He couldn't deny, though, that for all his blandness Arthur was warm, and that he tasted unexpectedly sweet. And he had to admit – as much as he might not want to – that some of his best memories of earth involved dull, drab, supremely insignificant Arthur. Like the time they stayed up all night _not_ watching the Monty Python Marathon Arthur insisted Ford had to see. Or that one morning they had made an utter mess of the kitchen while Arthur taught Ford how to make American style pancakes. And then the even bigger mess they’d made with the maple syrup afterward. 

Ford still checked for passing ships each morning, just as he had every morning since he'd first landed on this awful rock of a planet, looking for a way off. But oddly enough he started to feel, well... almost guilty about doing so when he was in Arthur’s unimaginatively decorated little house. 

Still, eventually he'd find a way off this backwater of a planet and never look back. 

Well, for a little while anyway. Maybe he'd borrow a spaceship at some point and come back for a visit and show Arthur that all his stories weren't delusions after all. Just to prove the point, of course. It wasn't as though he miss him or anything. 

Except... except...

  


  


Except this was entirely different. 

Ford couldn’t look away from the Thumb in his hands and felt a sick kind of shocked horror rising up in him. There was no doubt that it was Earth that the Vogon constructor fleet was heading for. 

There would be no visits back. 

And there would be no _him_ to _not_ to visit back if he didn't get a move on, and quickly. 

Ford hastily grabbed his few things together from the tiny room he'd currently been living in and tried not to think about anything but getting away. 

He tried to blank his mind of anything to do with pancakes and smoky pubs and lazy mornings and Monty Python. 

There was nothing he could do about any of it. If he wanted to be alive a couple hours from now, there was nothing he could do but run. 

So he ran. 

Except he found himself running, not toward the pub to begin getting himself ready for space travel as he should have, but toward Arthur's neat, dull little house 

A human would never be able to make it in the larger galaxy. There was no possible way! They were too gullible, too unimaginative, their minds to inflexible to deal with the utterly unpredictable nature of the universe beyond their dull little world. But... but.. 

But the fact was that there was no point in arguing with a decision that he seemed to have made without actually making it. 

He was finally getting off this crummy little planet once and for all – and he was taking Arthur Dent with him.

"Bugger," he muttered under his breath as he ran even faster toward Arthur’s ordinary little house.

  


  


**End**


End file.
